Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family. Fenn George Manville

Sir Joshua, just where the Greenhurst lane crosses the long coppice, Sir Joshua.”

      “And what did the prisoners say?” said the chairman stiffly.

      “Said they was blackberrying, Sir.”

      “Oh!” said the chairman, and he appeared so stern that no one dared laugh, though a young rustic-looking policeman at whom Jock Morrison winked turned red in the face with his efforts to prevent an explosion.

      “Did they make any – er – er – resistance, keeper?” said the chairman.

      “The big prisoner, sir, said he’d smash my head if I interfered with him.”

      “Dear me! A very desperate character,” said Sir Joshua. “And did he?”

      “No, Sir Joshua, we was too many for him. There was me, Smith, Duggan, and the two pleecemen, so they give in.”

      And so on, and so on.

      Had the prisoners anything to say in their defence?

      The dirty man had not, Jock Morrison had. “Lookye here: he didn’t take the game, shouldn’t ha’ taken it, only they foun’ ’em all lying aside the road. It was a fakement o’ the keeper’s, that’s what it was. They was a pickin’ blackberries, that’s what him and his mate was a doin’ of, and as soon as the ’ops was ready they was a going down south to pick ’ops.”

      The magistrates’ clerk, the principal solicitor in the town, smiled, and said he was afraid they would miss the hop-picking that season, as it was over.

      There was a short conference on the bench, and then the Rev. Eli Mallow sentenced the prisoners to three months’ imprisonment, and told them it was very fortunate for them that they had not resisted the law.

      “You arn’t going to quod us for three months along o’ them birds and that hare, are you?” said Jock Morrison.

      “Take them away, policeman.”

      “Hold hard a moment,” said the big fellow, so fiercely that the sergeant present drew back. “Look here, parsons, you’ll spoil our hop-picking.”

      “Take them away, constable,” said the Rev. Eli. “The next case.”

      “Hold hard, d’ye hear!” cried the big ruffian, in a voice of thunder. “I s’pose, parson,” he continued, addressing the chairman, “if I say much to you, I shall get it laid on thicker.”

      “My good fellow,” said the Rev. Eli, “you have been most leniently dealt with. I am sorry for you on account of your brother, a most respectable man, who has always set you an admirable example, and – ”

      “I say,” exclaimed Jock, “this arn’t chutch, is it?”

      There was a titter here, but the chairman continued: —

      “I will say no more, as you seem in so hardened a frame of mind, only that if you are violent you may be committed for trial.”

      “All right,” said the great fellow, between his gritting teeth; “I don’t say no more, only – all right: come along, matey; we can do the three months easy.”

      There was a bit of a bustle, and the prisoners were taken off. The rest of the cases were despatched. The carriage called for the chairman, and on the way back it passed the police cart, with the sergeant giving the two poaching prisoners a ride, but each man had his ankle chained to a big ring in the bottom of the vehicle, where they sat face to face, and the sergeant and his man were driving the blackberry pickers to the county gaol.

      “What a dreadful-looking man!” said Julia, as in passing Jock Morrison ironically touched his soft felt hat.

      “Yes, my dear – poachers,” said the Rev. Eli calmly, as one who felt that he had done his duty to society, and never for a moment dreaming that he had been stirring Fate to play him another bitter turn.

      Part 1, Chapter VII.

      Polly’s Surprise

      There was a dark shadow over Polly Morrison’s mind, and she started and shivered at every step when her husband was away at work, but only to brighten up when the great sturdy fellow came in, smelling of wood, and ready to crush her in his arms with one of his bear-like hugs.

      Polly had been furtively gazing from the window several times on the afternoon of that market-day, and turned hot and cold as she had heard steps which might be those of some one coming there; but the cloud passed away in the sunshine of Tom Morrison’s happy smile, now that he had come in, and she felt, as she expressed it, “oh! so safe.”

      “There, let me go, do, Tom,” she cried, merrily. “Oh, what a great strong, rough fellow you are!”

      “No, no; stop a minute,” he said here. “I oughtn’t to be smiling, for I’ve just heard something, Polly.”

      “Heard something, Tom!” she faltered, and she turned white with dread, and shrank away.

      “Here, I say,” he cried, “you must get up your strength, lass. Why, what a shivering little thing thou art!”

      “You – you frightened me, Tom,” she gasped.

      “Frightened you? There, there, it’s nothing to frighten thee. I have just heard about Jock.”

      “Oh! about Jock,” cried Polly, drawing a breath full of relief. “I hope he has got off.”

      “Well, no, my lass, he hasn’t, and I’m sorry and I’m not sorry, if thou canst understand that. I’m sorry Jock is to be punished, and I’m not sorry if it will do him good. Arn’t you ashamed of having a husband with such a bad brother?”

      “Ashamed! Oh, Tom!” she cried, throwing her arms about his neck.

      “Well, if you are not, I am,” said Tom, sadly; “and I can’t help thinking that if old Humphrey Bone had done his duty better by us, Jock would have turned out a different man.”

      “But tell me, Tom, are they going to do anything dreadful to him?”

      “Three months on bread and water, my lass,” said Tom Morrison, – “bread of repentance and water of repentance; and I hope they’ll do him good, but I’m afraid when he comes out he’ll be after the hares and pheasants again, and I’m always in a fret lest he should get into a fight with the keepers. But there, my lass, I can’t help it. I’d give him a share of the business if he’d take to it, but he wean’t. I shan’t fret, and if people like to look down on me about it, they may.”

      “But they don’t, Tom, dear,” cried Polly, with her face all in dimples, the great trouble of her life forgotten for the time. “I’ve got such a surprise for you.”

      “Surprise for me, lass? What is it? A custard for tea?”

      “No, no; what a boy you are to eat!” cried Polly, merrily.

      “Just you come and smell sawdust all day, and see if you don’t eat,” cried Tom. “Here, what is it?”

      “Oh, you must wait. There, what a shame! and you haven’t kissed baby.”

      She ran out to fetch the baby and hold it up to him to be kissed, while she looked at him with all a young mother’s pride in the little one, of which the great sturdy fellow had grown so fond.

      “It makes me so happy, Tom,” she said, with the tears in her eyes.

      “Happy, does it, lass?”

      “Oh, yes. So – so happy,” she cried, nestling to him with her baby in her arms, and sighing with her sense of safety and content, as the strong muscles held her to the broad breast. “I was afraid, Tom, that you might not care for it – that you would think it a trouble, and – and – ”

      “That you were a silly little wife, and full of foolish fancies,” he cried, kissing her tenderly.

      “Yes, yes, Tom, I was,” she cried, smiling up at him through her tears. “But come – your tea. Here, Budge.”

      Budge had been a